


run dry

by nbmothman



Series: the only true messiah rescues us from ourselves [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Cocaine, Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbmothman/pseuds/nbmothman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick hates a lot of things. Parties, awkward social interactions, and most importantly, Pete Wentz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	run dry

**Author's Note:**

> Opening quote from the song You Must Be Out of Your Mind by The Magnetic Fields

  
_You think I’ll run not walk to you_  
_Why would I want to talk to you?_  
_I want you crawling back to me_  
_Down on your knees, yeah_  
-o-

If there’s one thing Patrick hates more than anything in the world, its people.

It’s not _every_ person, because that would be exhausting, but its people he doesn’t know. Its crowds, its audiences, its stupid fucking _masses_ of bodies at get-togethers that Joe makes him go to because “It’s good for you, you need to get your name out there if you want to get a record deal!”

Patrick’s pretty sure Joe just came for the weed. Because he’s gone without a trace, leaving Patrick stranded in the middle of much more popular musicians, though they’re not necessarily better. Patrick tries to take _some_ pride in himself, for fucks sake. It’s beside the fact that he’s on the verge of tears and trying to drink himself through a panic attack, not sure whether it’s worth it to stay planted near the bar and drink enough to feign some confidence or to just go home. 

He almost throws up when he sees his boss here. Burt, shitty boss, shitty coffee shop Burt, walking around like he fucking fit in better than Patrick ever dreamed he could himself. He gravitates towards Patrick and inevitably strikes up a conversation.

“What are you doing here?” Patrick has to ask, panic threatening to blow a hole in his head. 

“Joe invited me, actually. He was going on and on that I had to represent you musically. Like I’m part of your resume or something, says I should put in a good word for you.” He smiled, cheeks rosy with his huge fucking smile and acting so _comfortable_. Patrick wants to punch him. 

Instead, he quickly excuses himself and this time he’s really throwing up. He’s so glad the lights are dim and the music’s too loud and he’s so short no one can see him under their 5 inch heels and their tall champagne glasses. Tears dribble out the corners of his eyes, vomiting up his dinner and not his anxiety straight into a garbage can probably more expensive than his rent. 

He washes the leftover bile from his mouth with what’s left of his drink, whiskey that’s too expensive and too smooth, too fancy. It doesn’t feel natural. He wants to be home, drinking _his_ whiskey, his shitty, shitty whiskey that was cheap and burned through his mouth down into his gut. He’s so out of his element he thought he would suffocate, his mind fighting against itself to _calm the fuck down_.

Patrick slams three more drinks down before he wills himself to walk around a bit, passing easily through the crowd because _c’mon_ , he played shitty acoustic songs with his roommate, he was no Justin Bieber. But the music blurs and so does his vision, the lights bright and distracting and the people around him hot and smiling. He accidently runs into a few people, hoping to dear fucking god that they wouldn’t recognize or remember him later, but tries to engage in conversation the best he can. Sweat starts to fall from underneath his hat and down his temples, so he takes a break from the crowd to lean against a wall, cool and motionless. 

A sudden fuss of noise makes itself known as Patrick is wiping his glasses on his sleeve. He looks over to catch a glimpse of a very noticeable, very disheveled Pete Wentz stumble out of the bathroom close to the wall Patrick leaned against. Patrick’s eyes blew wide and he struggled to put his glasses back on, and when he could actually see, his eyes locked with Pete’s. 

“Dude, _dude_.” He hears Wentz cackle, swaying on his feet and wiping at the thin line of blood running from his nose.

Patrick stalled. He was way too drunk for this. He was too petrified and introverted and uncomfortable and _scared_ in this room when he was alone, let alone being confronted with the biggest attention seeking, uncontrollable, and more importantly, _loud_ , prima donna this town had ever seen.

And he was walking directly towards him.

Patrick tries to sputter out a word, words, _anything_ to get this guy away from him but he’s shitfaced and his lips and tongue functions aren’t exactly up to par. _Never really have been_ , he thinks idly. _I should probably work on that_.

Patrick’s dreamy thoughts are interrupted by Pete clapping him on his shoulder, getting way too close, foreheads almost touching.

“ _Dude_ , you are like an _angel_.” Pete breathes, and for a second, Patrick thinks it might be genuine. Pete’s eyes are blown out and shining in the ever-changing lights from the party and he’s smiling so so wide, making direct eye contact and his hands are so warm… 

Patrick closes his eyes and shakes his head. He’s just drunk. This is Pete fucking Wentz and nothing that fucker ever says means anything to Patrick. He doesn’t care what Pete thinks, who he fucks, what drug he’s on this week, what show he played or why he his nose was bleeding and he has a split lip. 

Patrick stumbled back against the wall, hands groping against the cool tile to steady himself, feeling his heart pound and his stomach slosh inside him.

“I call you a cab one fucking time and now I’m an angel?” Patrick spits, feeling other people’s eyes starting to wander over to the two of them.

Pete’s eyes are swimming and his smile is so wide it looks uncomfortable.

“You’re just so adorable, you know? You’re all white and glowing and you were nice to me, just like an angel.”

Patrick balked and narrowed his eyebrows. “I was nice to you _once_. That shouldn’t mean anything to someone like you.”

Swaying in front of him, Pete rubs at his nose and shifts on his feet. He looks up though dark lashes and bloodshot eyes before licking his dry lips.

“So you play music? That’s why you’re here?”

Patrick does not want to be here. He doesn’t want to be talking to some washed up junkie who looks like he just got run over by a truck and keeps calling Patrick an angel. He tries to regulate his breathing and rubs his eyes, deciding this would be the best time go get out of here and pass out on his couch.

“Yeah, you could say that. You wouldn’t know me. I’m nobody, forget about it.”

He shrugs into his jacket before pushing past Pete.

“I’ll see you around, angel face!” Pete calls after Patrick is a few paces away. He looks back and scoffs before he shoves himself past what feels like hordes of people and heads for the door.

Sometimes Patrick wishes he never left the house.


End file.
